


Hellfire

by lucitheangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fallen!Michael, Lucifer!Sam, M/M, Michael!Dean, Season 5 AU, reverse!verse, season 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitheangel/pseuds/lucitheangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is the King of Hell, Lucifer is Heaven's General, everything is falling into place, and nothing is as it should be.</p><p>[Basically a michean AU where Michael fell, but I'm incapable of making actually useful summaries. I'M WORKING ON IT I SWEAR.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I'm a little unreliable. If I don't update for a while, feel free to bombard me with annoyance.

Every hunter knew the stories.  
No, scratch that, everyone knew those stories. The story of Lucifer and Michael, of how the eldest angel rebelled and was cast down. The story of the devil.  
And to most people, that's exactly what it was: a story. A mere tale made up centuries ago.  
But that story hit close to home for hunters, partly because their job involved the knowledge that many, many "stories" turned out to be far too real, and partly because of the demons.  
The demons talked endlessly about Michael. How he hadn't been seen in thousands of years. How he was coming, how they were all going to die, how the world was going to burn.   
How not even Lucifer could stop it.  
The hunters tried very hard not to listen.

Sam and Dean Winchester knew the stories. They'd always been told they weren't true, that they were lies spread by demons and helped along by humans, and they believed that gladly. Who wanted to believe in the devil, especially when you were a hunter?  
Then John died, then the Hellgate was opened and Dean sold his soul, and Hell was no longer some far-off place to shove demons, because that's where Dean was going in a year, and both brothers began to rethink their lifelong disbelief in the devil. Sam, of course, did this much more willingly than Dean. After all, they hunted demons, was it that far of a stretch to believe those demons came from somewhere?  
Dean, on the other hand, shoved aside all thoughts of Michael, and devoted his attention to doing his job and living as recklessly as he could in the one year he had left.  
Then he found himself trapped in a basement with a demon, and couldn't help but ask about Hell, so of course she had to bring Michael into it, which of course scared Dean more than a little, though he would never admit it.  
And then there was Lilith and Ruby and holy shit Dean's time was running out, and he really wished that Sam would stop trying to find a way to save him because Dean was terrified that it would get Sam killed and he'd be left with a dead brother and no soul to sell.  
When Dean died, Sam refused to acknowledge the grief, instead turning to Ruby and the demon blood, only focusing on how he was going to kill Lilith, and everything would be fine, and he would force her to bring Dean back, and then he'd kill her and it would all be alright.  
The ends justify the means.  
That's what he told himself, at least until he was too far gone to care anymore.


	2. The Hellish Guilt Complex of Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean knew something wasn't right about Hell (aside from the obvious) from the moment he made his descent. Their was electricity in the air; a tense excitement that surely didn't belong in the universe's oldest torture chamber, a feeling that left everyone on edge and awaiting something, the nature of which hadn't yet been told.  
> Not that the name had to be spoken for Dean to hear it. It was everywhere, reverberating around in the flames and echoing in the minds of every creature present.  
> Michael, Michael, Michael.

Dean supposed it all started with Hell.  
If he really wanted to be technical, he'd say everything began the night their mother died, but that wasn't strictly true. Their fate hadn't been certain then, not yet.  
But, how oddly fitting that it was Hell that served as the beginning of the end, Hell that melted the wax that sealed their fate, Hell that confirmed it all; locked and loaded, the world's on a one-way highway to Armageddon and it's your fault, and there isn't a single thing you can do about it.   
Some asshat out there was surely laughing at the poetic justice in that. If it wasn't the end of the world, Dean supposed he'd be able to see their point. As it was, they could take their poetic justice, roll it up real tight, and shove it up their lily-white ass.  
Dean knew something wasn't right about Hell (aside from the obvious) from the moment he made his descent. Their was electricity in the air; a tense excitement that surely didn't belong in the universe's oldest torture chamber, a feeling that left everyone on edge and awaiting something, the nature of which hadn't yet been told.  
Not that the name had to be spoken for Dean to hear it. It was everywhere, reverberating around in the flames and echoing in the minds of every creature present.  
Michael, Michael, Michael.  
Dean latched onto it like a lifeline, because that's essentially what it was. A lifeline to keep him sane, something to focus on that was not the slicing and burning and smell of rotten flesh.  
Without it, Dean doubted he would have lasted a day.  
And sure, maybe that was sick, maybe it was twisted for the devil's name to be the thing that kept him grounded, but who cared about that in Hell? That place stripped away morals and sanity with the same careless precision it did with flesh.  
It was a miracle in itself that Dean still had any semblance of sanity after forty years there.  
And then the unthinkable happened and he was topside again, and he was pulling himself from his own grave (and he never thought he'd be thanking John for teaching him how to do that, but here he was), and the first thing to enter his head was how wrong this was, how he didn't deserve this, he'd tortured souls in Hell and liked it, for fuck's sake! What was he doing out? He should've been burning down in that pit for even thinking of saying yes to Alistair.  
Of course, a very large part of him was incredibly glad he'd been saved.  
This, of course, simply made him feel worse.

Then there was Castiel. The Angel of the Lord in the form of a holy tax accountant who'd shouted to all the angels in creation that Dean Winchester is saved and walked past Dean's carefully constructed emotional barriers like they weren't there at all with the words you don't think you deserve to be saved.  
Dean had realised how he felt about Cas, acknowledged this feeling, carefully considered it, then shoved it into a metaphorical lead box with all the force of a man shoving a deadly creature away from his sensitive area.  
Dean did not deserve Cas. Cas didn't deserve him. Cas was this ethereal being, this multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, and Dean was a hunter who'd gone to hell.  
Last train leaving for the never going to happen city; occupants, Dean Winchester.  
So Dean shoved his feelings for Cas to the very back of his mind, until such a time as the 66 seals were brought up, whereupon Dean decided there was a shitload of more important things to worry about that did not involve doing unspeakable things to Castiel.

As the seals continued to break, as Sam looked more and more suspicious, as Cas came to the conclusion that the angels weren't doing anything to help, Dean heard the voice he hadn't since Hell.  
Michael, Michael, Michael.  
He tried very hard not to think about it. Because that was the name that had kept him sane in Hell, and it was also the name of a certain archangel who turned out to be all too real. A certain archangel who, at this moment, was watching the seals break on his cage like souls on the rack, awaiting the moment he himself would break free and rise up, bringing the Apocalypse with him.  
When Dean found out about Sam and the demon blood, he was angry. Angry at Sam, and angry at himself because he had no right to be angry with Sam, not after what he'd done in Hell, and because this was his fault. He should've been a better brother, should've avoided going to Hell, should've killed Ruby when he had the chance.  
His fault his fault his fault his fault.  
When Sam got free, it was his fault. When he couldn't stop him from killing Lilith in time, that was his fault. When the door to Michael's cage opened, when that fiery light poured out of the circle made by Lilith's blood, the beacon signalling the beginning of the end, that was on him.  
The Apocalypse started with Hell, yes, but it wouldn't have been possible without Dean Winchester.


	3. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael makes an appearance, and everything all gets set on a slippery slope called Destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, it's been forever. And this hasn't been edited as well as it should have been. If you find any mistakes, let me know.

The voice in Dean's head had only gotten louder since the Cage was opened.  
He could hear it when they stumbled into Chuck's destroyed house, he could hear it whispering to him, calling his name. It got louder when Zachariah showed up, and crowed in glee when he was banished.  
Dean felt oddly comfortable with its presence. Which, naturally, led to him hating himself because he should hate it, he should want it gone.

Two days later, there was a knock at their door.  
A few quick glances at each other had Dean ready his shotgun and Sam carefully open the door, to reveal a blonde woman who quickly began hyperventilating.  
Sam frowned. ‘You okay, lady?’ he asked, still wary.  
‘Sam,’ she gasped. ‘Is it really you?’  
She then stepped into the room and began caressing Sam’s chest.  
‘And you’re so firm!’  
Sam stepped back.  
‘Uh..’ he said, trying to figure out exactly what one would say in this situation. ‘Do I know you?’  
‘No,’ the creepy lady said. ‘But I know you.’  
Sam stared.  
‘You’re Sam Winchester,’ she said, sounding like she sent her free time obsessing over the guy. Then, turning to Dean, she continued.  
‘And you’re - ’ she paused. ‘Not what I pictured.’  
She turned back to Sam. ‘I’m Becky,’ she said, grinning like a mad person. ‘I’ve read all about you guys! And I’ve even written a few…’ she looked at the ground.  
Dean struggled not to hit his head against the wall. When he’d heard the word Apocalypse, this was not what he’d pictured.  
‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘Mr Edlund told me where you were.’  
Dean stood. ‘Chuck?’ he asked incredulously.  
‘He’s got a message,’ she insisted. ‘But he’s being watched. Angels!’  
Sam got up and shut the door, rubbing his temples and looking exactly the way Dean felt.  
‘Nice change-up to the mythology, by the way,’ Becky continued. ‘The demon stuff was getting kinda old.’  
‘Right,’ Sam interrupted. ‘I’d, uh, just, what’s the message?’  
‘He had a vision,’ Becky said seriously, then closed her eyes. ‘The Sword of Lucifer is on Earth. The angels lost it.’  
‘The Sword of Lucifer?’ Dean asked, somewhat skeptical about the whole thing. After all, he didn’t really want to get pulled into a trap by some weird-ass monster impersonating a crazed fan. That would really be the icing on the already absolutely shitty cake.  
‘Becky, did he say where it is?’ San asked earnestly.  
‘In a castle. On a hill made of 42 dogs,’ she said, as though that made any sense whatsoever.  
’42 dogs?’ Dean repeated, his skepticism growing by the minute.  
Sam looked equally confused. ‘Are you sure you got that right?’  
‘It doesn't make sense,’ Becky agreed. ‘But that’s what he said. I memorised every word. For you.’  
She was getting creepily close to Sam again, stroking his chest like he was some kind of display.  
‘Becky,’ Sam said, looking exceptionally uncomfortable. ‘Can you quit touching me?’  
‘No,’ Becky said, and continued to stroke his chest.

 

‘So,’ Dean said when Bobby showed up. ‘Sword of Lucifer? You think we’re talking about the actual sword from the actual Archangel?’  
He ignored the voice in the back of his head, which was protesting loudly and angrily.  
‘You better friggin’ hope so.’ Bobby dumped a book on the table, and opened it to a page that depicted some kind of Renaissance painting.  
‘That’s Lucifer,’ he said, pointing. ‘Toughest son of a bitch they got.’  
Dean look over sam’s shoulder while his little brother was flipping through the book, and snorted.  
‘You kidding me, tough?’ he asked, staring at the image. It looked more like a fairy godmother than an Archangel. ‘Guy looks like Kate Blanchett.’  
‘Well I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley, believe me,’ Bobby said.  
The voice stopped protesting for a second to murmur its assent. Dean decided to believe it.  
‘He commands the Heavenly Host,’ Bobby continued. ‘During the last big dust-up upstairs, he’s the one who booted Michael’s ass to the basement - ’  
The voice in Dean’s head made an unpleasant screeching sound, and it was all he could do not to cover his ears.  
‘ - and he did it with that sword. So if we can find it,’ Bobby left the sentence hanging.  
‘We kick the devil’s ass all over again,’ Sam finished.  
Dean felt a sudden discomfort that had nothing to do with the questionable Chinese food he’d eaten last night.  
‘Alright, so where do we start?’ Sam asked.  
Bobby shook his head. ‘Divvy up and start reading,’ he suggested. ‘See if we can make sense of Chuck’s nonsense.’  
Sam got up, heading towards another pile of books, while Dean tried to ignore whatever the voice was trying to say. It had something to do with Bobby.  
Two minutes later, when he found he had no hope of concentrating on anything, he finally did the metal of equivalent of throwing something and yelling _what the hell do you want?_  
The voice managed to convey an emotion that was exactly how one usually felt when they were rolling their eyes, and said _Finally._  
Cut the crap, Dean told it. _First off, why’re you hanging around in my skull?_  
In due time. For now, you might want to take a look at your friend Bobby.  
Dean decided to humour it, and looked up. What he saw was not Bobby’s face, but the ragged, burnt flesh he’d become so familiar with in hell.  
Dean cursed under his breath. Bobby was possessed.  
He ran through his options. He couldn’t use the knife, and an exorcism would take too long. They hadn’t drawn up any devil’s traps yet, so tricking the demon into one of those was out of the question. He doubted he could scare the thing into smoking out.  
He cursed again. He was out of options.  
_Or you could let me take care of it,_ the voice suggested.  
Dean responded with a mental middle finger and a _no way in hell._  
‘Kid?’ Bobby asked, pulling Dean from his thoughts. He was staring at Sam. ‘You alright?’  
Sam turned. ‘No, actually,’ he said. ‘Bobby, this is all my fault.’  
Dean groaned internally, and starting to subtly make his way towards the holy water before Sam could bare his soul to a demon.  
‘Sam,’ he said, trying to stop him.  
‘Lilith did not break the final seal,’ Sam continued. ‘Lilith _was_ the final seal.’  
‘Sam,’ Dean insisted. ‘Stop it.’  
‘I killed her. And I set Lucifer free.’  
Dean grabbed the flask of holy water and threw the contents at Bobby, desperately hoping he wasn’t being tricked.  
He wasn’t.  
The demon hissed and steamed, and something in Dean screamed at seeing him in pain Dean himself had caused. He tried to tell himself that it was a demon, not Bobby, but that didn’t change the fact that Bobby was in there somewhere, probably getting a front row seat to what the demon was doing.  
Sam caught on instantly, scrabbling for the book containing the exorcism while the demon wearing Bobby’s skin threw Dean across the room.  
_“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus - ”_  
The demon sent a book flying into Sam’s face, effectively shutting him up while he advanced on Dean, crushing his windpipe in a psychic headlock.  
Sam recovered quickly, tripping over his feet as he struggled to find the exorcism. It was because of that that he didn’t notice when the demon pulled Ruby’s knife from Bobby’s jacket.  
Struggling harder now, Dean made fruitless attempts to free himself from the demon’s hold, to make a noise, to warn Sam, to do _something_ -  
\- when Sam started the exorcism again and the demon faltered, its grip on Dean slipping just enough for him to wrench free -  
\- and he was shouting at Bobby, desperately hoping that he could hear him, begging him to stop this -  
\- and Dean could see it was going to be close, that Bobby just might be strong enough to throw the demon off (he didn’t know how he knew, he just did) -  
\- and Bobby came back into control of his own body just long enough to plunge the knife into his own stomach.

*

When they found the storage locker, Dean thought that maybe they had a shot.  
And then, of course, everything went to shit.  
The dead bodies on the floor had been a surprise. If nothing else, it put them on edge for when that smarmy voice Dean was really learning to hate announced the presence of its equally smarmy owner.  
“I see you told the demons where the Sword is,” Zachariah said, smug as ever.  
“Oh thank God, the angels are here.”  
Zachariah ignored Dean’s comment and stepped over one of the bodies. “And to think,” he said, “they could’ve grabbed it any time they wanted.”  
His voice sung of _I-know-something-you-don’t_ , and it made Dean want to hit him.  
(That particular urge had nothing to do with the voice's murmured assent.)  
“Right in from of them,” Zachariah continued, the door closing with an ominous _thunk_.  
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.  
“We may have planted that particular piece of prophecy inside Chuck’s skull,” Zachariah admitted. “But it happened to be true. We did lose Lucifer’s Sword; we truly couldn’t find it.”  
He paused, grinning.  
“Until now, when you’ve just hand-delivered it to us.”  
Dean stared.  
“We don’t have anything,” he said.  
Zachariah sighed impatiently. “Not you,” he said, throwing Dean a few feet with a wave of his hand, then addressing Sam directly.  
“You.”  
Dean, getting seriously tired of being thrown around by dickheads with telekinesis, tried to fight Zachariah’s hold. Nothing happened. Naturally.  
“You’re the Sword.”  
Sam stared, incomprehension clear in his eyes and face.  
At their silence, Zachariah continued; “What, you thought you could actually kill Michael?” He turned to Dean, glaring at him. “You simpering wad of insecurity and self-loathing. No. You’re both just humans.”  
“What is that supposed to mean, I’m the Sword?” Sam interrupted.  
“You’re Lucifer’s weapon,” Zachariah clarified. “Or rather, his receptacle.”  
Sam and Dean caught on within seconds of each other, Dean making sharp, vaguely formed sounds of protest while Sam continued the conversation with, “I’m a vessel? Me?”  
“You’re the vessel,” Zachariah said. “Lucifer’s vessel.”  
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sam insisted. “Why me? I’m just - ” he gestured vaguely, but what he left unsaid rang sharply in Dean’s ears.  
“You’re chosen!” Zachariah sounded offended that Sam wasn’t immediately signing up for this _wonderful experience_. “It’s a great honour!”  
“Oh, yeah,” Dean interrupted, glaring at the angel. “Life as an angel condom. That’s real fun.”  
Sam glanced at him. “Dean, shut up for a second,” he said quietly.  
Zachariah appeared not to have heard him, instead rounding on Dean.  
“Joking, always joking,” he muttered. “Well. No more jokes.”  
He made a gun shape with his hand, and, before Dean could process exactly what he was doing, pointed it at his leg and said, “Bang.”  
The pain was instantaneous, shooting through his leg from a spot just below his knee, and he shouted, collapsing to the ground and trying to see through the blinding white that had overtaken his vision.  
“You son of a bitch,” he gasped out, glaring in the vague direction of Zachariah while Sam stared, horrified.  
“Keep mouthing off and I’ll break more than your legs.”  
From what Dean could see, the bastard angel turned to Sam, who had an expression of horror and hatred on his face.  
“The war has begun, we don’t have our general,” he said, smiling a kind of sick smile he probably thought was reassuring. “That's bad. Now Lucifer is going to take his vessel, and lead the final charge against the Adversary. You understand me?”  
It was a while before Sam replied, and for one awful second Dean was convinced he was going to say yes.  
“And how many human lives will that cost, huh?” he asked, barely concealed rage as evident in his tone as if he’d shouted. “A few million?”  
“Probably more,” Zachariah admitted. “And if Michael goes unchecked, you know how many die?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “All of them. He’ll roast the planet alive.”  
Sam looked torn for a minute, before he glanced at Dean and appeared to steel himself.  
“But there’s one flaw in that plan, isn’t there?” he pointed out. “You need me to say yes.”  
“Unfortunately, yes,” Zachariah said. He did not look at all happy about it.  
“Don’t do it, Sam!” Dean groaned, trying to reach out and only succeeding in causing himself more pain.  
“Yeah, well tough luck,” Sam said, looking at the ground. He raised his head. “No way in hell.”  
Zachariah sighed.  
“Your friend Bobby,” he said. “We know he’s gravely injured. Say yes and we’ll heal him. Say no, he’ll never walk again.”  
Tears appeared in Sam’s eyes, but he shook his head regardless.  
“Then how about we heal you from,” Zachariah tilted his head, seeming to consider. “Stage four stomach cancer.”  
Sam doubled over as Dean watched, horrified, and began coughing up blood. But even as he choked on it, he managed to gasp out a defiant, “No.”  
“Alright, let’s get really creative,” Zachariah said, “let’s see how Dean does without his lungs.”  
Dean was suddenly faced with the truly awful feeling of being entirely unable to draw breath.  
“Are we having fun yet?”  
Zachariah took the two steps toward Sam and gripped his chin, forcing him to look up.  
“You’re going to say yes, Sam,” he said.  
“Just kill us,” Sam managed.  
“Kill you? Oh no. I’m just getting started."

There was light.  
So much light, in fact, that Dean was convinced he was dead.  
That illusion didn’t last long.  
The light faded to reveal Cas, standing over the surprised-looking body of one of Zachariah’s minions, angel blade in hand.  
Dean smiled despite himself. Cas was alive. Despite the bet intentions of a goddamn archangel, he was alive and kicking and, well, _killing_.  
From the ease with which he disposed of Zachariah’s other minion, _killing like a goddamn pro_.  
“How are you…?” Zachariah stammered, sounding unsure for the first time since he’d showed up.  
“Alive?” Cas finished his sentence for him. “That’s a good question. How did these two end up on that airplane? Another… Good question, because the angels didn’t do it.”  
Cas paused.  
“I think we both know the answer, don’t we?”  
“No,” Zachariah muttered. “That’s not possible.”  
“It scares you,” Cas said. “Well, it should. Now put these boys back together and go. I won’t ask twice.”  
At the sound of flapping wings, Dean drew in a huge breath and sat up. His leg was healed, he could breathe again, and Cas was alive.  
All in all, a good end to an entirely terrible day, if not for the fact that he’d just had a rather unfortunate realisation. He might not be a genius, but he was capable of putting the metaphorical two and two together.

[Two and two being of course: the voice in Dean's head was the same as the one in Hell + Sam was Lucifer's vessel = a Michael-shaped realisation that Dean really didn't need, and wasn't going to contemplate without a shitload of alcohol.]

*

It was a few days after that Michael started visiting Dean while he slept, confirming Dean's realisation that he was the devil's vessel.  
He'd show up, a few minutes into Dean's dream, and he'd just sit there, and it was uncomfortable because it wasn't and Michael had no right to feel so _right_ next to Dean, and Dean would wake up in a cold sweat feeling better than he had in a long time and absolutely hating himself for it.  
This continued for several weeks. Michael would appear, and he would sit with Dean, and neither would say a word, and eventually Dean got used to it. Eventually Dean just threw his metaphorical hands in the air and said _screw it_ , because this felt so incredibly right and he didn't want to feel like shit for not feeling like shit because that made his fucking head hurt, so he just gave up.  
About then, Cas burst into Dean's motel room with the words, “Dean, you are Michael's true vessel.”  
Dean had simply clapped Cas on the shoulder and said, “Yeah. I've, uh, known for a while.”  
The words _he's invading my head while I sleep_ were heavily implied.

*

That night, Michael started talking. And he didn't stop.  
He would talk about anything and everything, about the creation of the universe and about something as mundane as the flight patterns of a bee. And Dean listened, hung onto his every word, because being with Michael made him feel not as if he'd been missing something his entire life, but as if he was only one half of a whole, and Michael was the other piece.  
And he was the devil. Dean's life was fucked up.  
But eventually, Dean didn't care. He could put aside the things Michael did, he could get over his whole _grudge against humanity_ thing, because Dean found he simply didn't give a fuck.  
It wasn't just with Michael, either. Dean found himself caring less and less about Cas, about Sam, about the Apocalypse. And this should have terrified him, but he found he didn't really care about that, either. He didn't even notice until Sam brought it up.  
“Dean,” Sam said. They were sitting at a table in a motel, cleaning their guns. They'd been hunting demons.  
“Hm?” Dean looked up.  
“Are you okay?” Sam asked, concern in his eyes.  
“Me? I'm fine.”  
“You're not, uh- you're not gonna say yes to Michael, are you?”  
Dean looked taken aback. He hadn't even considered saying yes. Saying yes would mean that Michael stopped visiting him in his dreams, and Dean wasn't quite ready to give that up yet. Besides, Michael had never even brought the subject up.  
“Why would I say yes to the devil, Sammy? Why are we even having this conversation?”  
Sam swallowed. “You've just ... been acting a little ... weird.”  
“Weird how?”  
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”  
“Weird _how?”_  
Sam sighed, dropping his hand onto the table.  
“You don't care, Dean. About me. About- Cas, about any of it. Hell, the friggin' world is ending, and you don't really give a shit.”  
Dean fought to keep his emotions off his face, turning automatically to sarcasm because shit, Sam was right.  
“Wow, Sam. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”  
Sam shrugged. “Say whatever you want, Dean. It's the truth.”  
Dean opened his mouth, found that he didn't have a reply, so instead announced his intention to get a beer and left.  
He was halfway to his car when Michael appeared, wearing the dark-haired, tattooed vessel he'd had in Dean's dreams. It was the first time Dean had seen the guy outside of his head, and in all honesty, Dean wasn't expecting it, which was why he swore and dropped his keys.  
Michael merely smiled while Dean retrieved them. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the Impala, and Dean was still a little reluctant to admit how it felt as though they'd known each other for years.  
Dean slid into the driver's seat, and Michael simply appeared next to him, prompting Dean to roll his eyes.  
“It's not that hard to open a door, you know.”  
“Yes, but this seems to irritate you,” Michael said, smiling infuriatingly.  
“Ass.”  
“Generally, yes.”  
Dean couldn't help smiling. He started the car, pulled out of the parking lot, then said, “So what, exactly, are you doing here? Haunting my dreams wasn't enough?”  
Michael chuckled. “You love it.”  
Dean glared at him. “Shut up,” he said, but there was no malice behind his words.  
“You seem annoyed with your brother.”  
“It's nothing,” Dean said automatically.  
“Dean.”  
Dean groaned. “Fine!” he exclaimed. “He's pissed, and he's right to be.”  
“About?”  
There was a pause.  
“He says I don't care,” Dean said eventually. He swallowed. “And he's right.”  
Michael inclined his head. “I would not say he’s entirely correct.”  
“In what way is he not _entirely correct_ , Michael?”  
“You do care about your brother, just not as much as you did.”  
Michael paused. “And you care about me.”  
“Not helping!”  
Michael raised an eyebrow pointedly. “It's true.”  
And it was. But it seemed Michael was right on both fronts, because Dean still cared too much about Sam to not feel like shit for caring about Michael, too.  
“You know what?” Dean said suddenly. Michael inclined his head, indicating for Dean to go on.  
“I'm gonna go get drunk, and you're gonna come with me, and then we'll find out exactly how much I care, hm?”  
Michael smiled, his lips splitting his face in two in a very unnerving way.


	4. Repercussions Are A Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Lucifer.
> 
> (And we all know that never ends well.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly sorry. There are no excuses, seriously. I'm an asshole.  
> (But an asshole who got a job, which really does inhibit any kind of writing.)

Dean showed up at the motel room the next morning with something off about the way he was walking and a shit-eating grin plastered onto his face. Upon seeing this, Sam smiled and shook his head, correctly assuming the what part of the story but not the whom.  
'Bobby called,' Sam said about half an hour later. 'He wants us to come by. Says he found something.'  
'Yeah, like what?'  
'Didn't say.'  
Dean nodded. 'Alright,' he said. 'Let's go, then.'

When they arrived at Bobby's, they were met with the words you boys ain't gonna believe this and the sight of a tall blond man standing in Bobby's living room.  
Both brothers drew in sharp breaths, because they both recognised him.  
'Hello,' Lucifer said.  
'What the hell are you doing here!?' Sam growled.  
'You're trying to prevent Armageddon, yes?'  
'No,' Dean said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. 'We just want to sit back and let the world burn, same as you winged douchedicks.'  
Sam glared at his brother. 'Yes. We don't want the world to end.'  
'Good,' Lucifer said. 'Then you and I are on the same side.'  
There were many variations of the word what? spoken at varying volumes all around the room.  
'I don't want to fight my brother,' Lucifer clarified. 'It is the last thing I want to do. But I will, if I have to. You can prevent it from getting that far, or so I hope.'  
'You're kidding,' Sam said.  
‘Do I look as though I am kidding?’  
He really didn’t.  
‘So how, exactly, are you gonna help us save the world?’ Dean asked.  
Lucifer tilted his head to the side, clearly thinking about what Dean had said. Or wondering if he should smite him. It could have been either.  
‘There is something I would need,’ he said carefully, gaze flicking to Sam.  
‘No way,’ Dean said.  
‘Dean!’ Sam protested.  
‘You are not saying yes to this asshole!’  
Lucifer coughed audibly.  
‘It’s my choice!’   
‘And how do you know he’s not lying, huh?’ Dean argued. ‘How do you know he’s not just using you?’  
Sam paused.  
‘I’m not saying yes,’ he clarified, turning to Lucifer.   
‘You will,’ Lucifer assured him.  
Dean turned away, to wanting to hear the rest of their conversation. He knew he was a hypocrite; after all, Sam wasn’t the one sneaking off to go fuck the devil, Sam was actually thinking rationally while Dean did the exact opposite of the right thing, but that didn’t stop him from wanting Lucifer gone.  
He wasn’t sure exactly why he hated the guy so much, but strongly suspected Michael had something to do with it.  
Sam and Lucifer were still talking, so Dean went into the kitchen to get some kind of alcohol, only to find that Bobby had also slipped off there at some point.  
‘What the hell are our lives, Bobby?’ Dean muttered as the older man passed him a beer.  
‘You’re telling me,’ Bobby replied, looking towards the other room as though he still hadn’t quite gotten his head around the fact that there was an archangel in his living room.  
After a few minutes of almost-silence (Dean could still hear the faint sounds of Sam and Lucifer’s conversation), Bobby spoke.  
‘I found a hunt for you boys not too far from here,’ he said. ‘Y’know, if you wanna take a break from all this Armageddon bullshit.’  
‘I’ll talk to Sam,’ Dean said stiffly.  
Bobby put down his drink and glared at Dean.  
‘What the hell is going on with you?’ he demanded.  
‘What?’ Dean said, immediately defensive though he had a good idea of what Bobby’s problem could be.  
‘I talked to Sam, if that clears anything up.’  
Dean looked away, glaring a hole in the wall and taking another sip of his beer.  
Bobby didn’t say anything else until Sam walked into the room looking thoroughly shaken.

‘What did Bobby say we’re hunting again?’  
They were on the road; Dean behind the wheel trying to put Bobby’s remark out of his mind, and Sam researching the hunt in the passenger seat.  
‘Said it looks like a ghost,’ Sam replied. ‘Should be a simple salt and burn, if everything goes okay.’  
‘Yeah, and when does that ever happen with us?’ Dean snapped.  
Sam glared at him.  
The tension in the car crackled like a bad radio station, and Dean turned up the music in a fruitless attempt to drown it out.

*

 ‘So get this,’ Sam started, and Dean begrudgingly put down his beer.  
‘Every fifteen years for as far back as these records go, people - couples, usually - die every three days in September.’  
Dean frowned. ‘Yeah, that sounds like our kind of thing.’  
‘Well, that’s why we’re here,’ Sam snapped.  
There was an uncomfortable pause.  
‘So who died last?’ Dean asked, regretting his sobriety already.  
‘A Mr Jackson Hughes, 35, married, two kids,’ Sam replied, looking down at his laptop.  
‘His wife still around?’  
Sam glanced back at his laptop. ‘Yeah,’ he said, typing. ‘And here’s her address.’  
‘Perfect,’ Dean replied, grabbing his suit from the duffle in the corner.

The remaining members of the Hughes family didn’t seem particularly worried that Mr Hughes had been found with his insides on the outside not five days ago. In fact, Dean was about to suggest that the wife, Amelia, had had something to do with it until Sam subtly pointed out the faded bruises on her and the kids.  
Dean sighed. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be a clear-cut as it looked.  
‘So this Hughes guy hit his wife, his kids, then gets butchered,’ Dean summarised as they left the house. ‘Reckon his home life’s got anything to do with the ghost?’  
Sam shrugged. ‘We’d have to check up on a few of the others to see if there’s a connection.’  
Dean nodded his assent as his brother produced a laptop from seemingly nowhere.  
They sat in silence only interrupted by the tapping of keys from Sam’s side of the Impala, and by the time they arrived back at the motel, he’d come to a conclusion.  
‘All the vics I could find records on either had some kind of abusive record, or were under strong suspicion of abusing their kids,’ Sam said.  
‘So you’re saying that this ghost goes after abusive parents?’ Dean replied.  
‘Yeah, that’s what it looks like.’  
‘You think you could find whose bones we gotta burn?’ Dean asked.  
Sam glanced back at his laptop. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But I could use your help. They’ve probably got records at the police station.’  
‘So, what, we’re looking for some poor kid that got offed by their parents?’ Dean asked.  
‘Looks like,’ Sam said, and went back to his laptop.

Dean returned a few hours later with several files and a headache.  
‘People are dicks,’ he concluded under his breath as he re-entered the hotel room.  
‘Hey,’ Sam said. ‘I think I found something.’  
‘I think I found a lot of somethings,’ Dean replied, dumping the files on one of the beds. Dust rose up from them, reminding Dean faintly of ashes.  
Sam chuckled stiffly. The case was making him nervous, Dean could see it in his eyes and the set of his shoulders. It didn’t have the same effect on Dean, the what-if-this-thing’s-doing-more-good-than-harm thoughts that plagued his brother taking one look at Dean’s subconscious and running.  
‘Rachel Roberts, killed three days after her fifteenth birthday by her father in 1924,’ Sam said, glancing at Dean for confirmation.  
Dean nodded briefly and pulled the relevant file from the stack on the bed.  
‘Says here the father never went to prison,’ Dean read, ‘but died exactly a year after his daughter in mysterious circumstances.’  
‘Let me guess, that was the year the killings started,’ Sam said.  
‘Yahtzee,’ Dean snapped, tossing the file back onto the bed.  
‘Do you know where she’s buried?’ Sam asked.  
‘Not a clue.’  
Sam glared at his brother for a few seconds, then muttered something to himself and turned back to his laptop.  
Dean, meanwhile, made the terrible choice of turning his attention to the ever-present (sarcastic, snarky, annoying as the place it came from and then some)voice in the back of his head.  
And maybe that made him insane, maybe he’d finally crossed the line after all those years of toeing it, staring at it, then playing jump-rope with it.  
And maybe he was alright with that.  
 _Very philosophical, Dean._  
Dean rolled his eyes. _Yeah, yeah._  
There was silence in his head for a few seconds.  
 _Why are you still here?_  
Dean frowned. _What?_  
 _I’m unable to figure out the appeal of remaining here with your brother, saving people you couldn’t care less about and hunting things that are little worse than humans.  
So you’d recommend, what, me saying yes?  
That’s not what I was suggesting at all, but if it’s on the table, I certainly won’t protest._  
 _It’s not on the table,_ Dean protested weakly, but they could both hear the lie as plainly as if Dean hadn’t bothered to lie at all.  
‘Hey, I think I found something.’  
Dean cursed Sam for pulling him out of the telepathic conversation so abruptly, but Michael merely settled back into Dean’s subconscious without protest (though Dean could feel the smirk.)  
‘Yeah?’ Dean replied, with effort.  
‘Cemetery just outside of town. It’s pretty small, shouldn’t be too hard to find the grave.’  
‘Let’s go, then.’  
Sam glared at him, and Dean knew he had been spectacularly unsuccessful at keeping his tone free of snark.

‘Shit!’  
Dean turned just in time to see the ragged, slightly transparent form of a teenage girl fling his brother into a gravestone.  
Sam stopped moving.  
And, just for a second, Dean’s world stopped turning.  
But then the ghost advanced on him and all he could think was _burn the bones burn the bones it’ll be fine if you just burn the bones_ , so that was what he did. He threw salt into the open grave and doused the bones in gasoline, and the ghost locked eyes with him as she burned.  
Dean remained perfectly still, mind still racing, until the spell was broken by Sam’s ragged coughing.  
Dean turned to him with relief. Sam, on the other hand, stared in horror at Dean, and began frantically trying to say something, gesturing and pointing.  
It registered just a second too late.  
Dean felt pain; horrible, awful pain, like the pain of the hellhounds and Alistair’s knife, and he traced it to his chest.  
He looked down.  
And just before everything went black, puzzled over what a strange feeling it was to see one’s own heart held in a transparent fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this was utter shit, I'm sorry. I wrote half of it on a plane and the other half while sleep deprived and high on coffee.


End file.
